Page 19

EIGHTEEN

A s Hekla descended the crumbling riverbank, she glanced at the western horizon for the dozenth time that hour. No matter how often she reassured herself that twilight was many hours off, she could not help but check the sun’s progress.

Tonight was the double black moon. Hekla’s skin crawled as she imagined the mist waiting, watching, biding its time, while Istré’s citizens bustled with excitement over tonight’s feast.

Right now, casks of mead would be rolled into Istré’s town square, and a boar roasted on the spit.

The scant harvest of grain would be baked into griddlecakes and flatbreads and served with cheese, boiled eggs, and vegetables, all of which ought to be preserved for the impending long winter.

Instead, this fare would be glutted upon in the hopes that a long-slumbering god would save them from their foe.

Bitterness and anger wrenched in Hekla’s stomach.

A better person would hold compassion in her heart and know that Istré’s citizens knew only the life they’d lived so far.

And if these farmlands were anything like the ones she’d grown up on, they were ancestral lands passed down through generations.

These were not just lands, but a part of their very identity.

Of course Istré’s citizens would want to believe in Loftur’s plans, no matter how far-fetched they were.

Hekla sighed, staring at the rushing waters of the river.

She’d said all she could to those who would listen.

Onund Ale Drinker had already been deep in his cups.

Alf the Slender had looked at her as though she had two heads.

Halldora alone had seemed swayed by Hekla’s words, and she’d promised to gather what provisions she could.

Now, Hekla set her sights on tonight. This job was no longer about vanquishing the mist. Now, it was about saving as many lives as possible.

This was bigger than her. Bigger than Eyvind Hakonsson’s retinue.

They’d need reinforcements. Clever minds to come together.

But that was all in the future. If she survived tonight, that was.

Earlier, she’d made a great spectacle of riding from Istré on her new gelding, purchased from the blacksmith for more sólas than she cared to consider.

Hekla had felt the eyes of Eyvind’s men from atop the ramparts and smiled a secret smile.

Little did Thrand Long Sword and the rest of them know, Hekla had steered her new horse off the road the moment she was out of sight.

And here she was a few minutes later, on the riverbank just upstream of Istré’s culvert.

With a deep breath, she plunged into the icy waters.

The shock of the cold water thankfully soon receded, and she said a silent thanks for the specialized metal that made her arm so light—any of the older models she’d had would have been cumbersome and dangerous in these waters.

With a deep breath, Hekla let the current pull her toward the culvert.

The stonework was even more remarkable up close.

Stone walls curled upward on either side of the river, channeling it through a narrow, circular passage.

As the river was diverted into the waterway, and the sky above her was swallowed by stone, she tried to control her pulse.

Gunnar had reported that the far end of the culvert was fitted with iron bars, and if all went to plan, he’d already cleaved through them with a specialized saw.

Hekla took a deep breath and pushed beneath the surface.

The currents drove her into the bars, the strength of the river water pinning her in place.

With great effort, she felt along the bars, searching for the cut space.

Had Gunnar been detained? Unable to cut the bars?

Her heart pounded harder as her lungs began to burn.

But then she felt the sharp edge of freshly sawed iron and silently thanked the gods.

Hekla pushed herself through the gap, cursing inwardly as the top bar scraped along her bruised shoulder.

Her lungs burned in earnest now, but it wasn’t a moment later that the river’s currents had delivered her safely beyond the culvert.

As her head broke the water’s surface, Hekla gulped great mouthfuls of air and swam toward the shore. She could already see the hemp sack hanging on a scraggly bush. Inside, Gunnar would have left dry linens and clean clothes for her to pull on.

After clambering through the willows and onto the bank, Hekla didn’t wait to catch her breath before shucking off her wet clothing. Soon she was dressed and pulling the hood of her cloak low on her brow.

She stole another glance at the sun, drifting ever-nearer to the horizon.

“We’re on schedule,” she told herself, breaking a path through the bushes. “Gunnar and Sigrún will be foraging for supplies.”

Hekla kept to the back roads as she crept through the village, preparing to note each wagon and horse as they passed.

But her mouth was soon twisted into a frown.

The miller’s wagon was not sitting in its usual place behind the man’s home.

Nor was the wagon the armourer used to haul smelted ore.

And the falconer’s horse was not grazing in his yard.

Strange , she thought, pressing on.

Istré’s town square came into view, and Hekla paused. In the distance, Konal and Loftur oversaw the erection of a pole, a banner bearing a sunburst flapping from high atop it. How long would Loftur continue this ruse? Hekla gave her head a shake and continued on her way.

It was risky to return to the yard behind the Hungry Blade so soon after leaving.

But Gunnar had overheard that the near-empty stables had been offered to those hauling wagon loads in for the feast. Soon the peaked roof of the stables came into view, and it wasn’t long before Hekla was crouched in the shadows of an empty stall.

She peered through the slats, counting the wagons parked at the edge of the building. Voices carried from the yard.

“Is that all you have?”

The goosebumps from earlier rushed back as she recognized Eyvind’s voice.

“Aye,” came a woman’s cautious reply. “I must wait until nightfall to risk taking any others—” It was Halldora.

Hekla repositioned herself for a better view into the yard just in time to see Halldora handing Eyvind the reins of a horse.

As he led it to a hitching post, the horse’s heavily filled saddlesacks came into view.

Her gaze skipped to the three other horses secured at the post, and she cursed Eyvind Hakonsson for intercepting her supplies.

Hekla’s mind swirled. She’d planned to use the inn’s yard to store their provisions, but now Eyvind had made that impossible.

Perhaps she could use the yard beside the blacksmith’s, vacant after the family had fled Istré?

But first, she’d have to lure Eyvind out of the inn’s yard so she could steal the horses and wagons?—

“Well?” Eyvind’s voice had an unusual sharpness that made Hekla press her face back against the slats. Her lip curled as Thrand Long Sword sauntered into the yard.

“She’s gone,” said Thrand, scratching his close-cropped curls.

Something that looked an awful lot like worry crossed Eyvind’s face.

“Vílki says she never rode past the checkpoint.”

Fuck. Irritation stirred Hekla’s blood. She ought to have known golden boy would have men watching her. Gods forbid Hekla interfere with their feasting. Shouldn’t these eelheads be in the town square, brawling and singing and drinking ale from the jug?

“You can come out, Hekla.”

Her brows snapped together. Eyvind was looking directly at the stables. A hot panicky feeling slid through her chest, but she wrestled it down and pulled her practiced bravado into place. Hekla pushed to her feet and strode from the stables with all the confidence she could muster.

Eyvind Bloody Hakonsson looked far too pretty.

Tight black braids wove along the sides of his skull, entwining with a looser large braid cresting over the top.

The waning sun made the green in his hazel eyes shine ever brighter, and those lips she knew all too well were curved into an irritating smirk.

“Thrand,” he said, holding his palm out expectantly, never taking his eyes off Hekla.

Grumbling, Thrand fished coins from the purse secured to his belt and dropped them into Eyvind’s outstretched hand.

Hekla folded her arms over her chest. “You’re awfully pleased with yourself, golden boy.”

“You just earned me twenty sólas by proving me right.”

Now that she was in the yard, Hekla could better see the wagons; there were eight of them, each covered with a woolen blanket.

With forced nonchalance, she strolled to the nearest and flipped the covering back.

Here was the large wagon the armorer used to haul smelted ore, but now, it held the kind of life-saving provisions the Bloodaxe Crew had once carried: a tinderbox, crates of dried meats, waterskins filled with water.

Hekla’s gaze slid to the next wagon, its vibrant blue wheels marking it as the miller’s wagon.

It was beginning to look like Hakonsson was preparing for an evacuation.

Her heart pounded, chest filling with hope. Could it truly be? She could not come up with any other explanation for the provisions now gathered here in the yard. But with that hope came the sharp pang of yet more deception.

“Why?” she asked, without turning around. She could not let him see the pain on her face. “Why did you brush aside my warnings? Why did you belittle me before your men?”

She heard him take a step forward.

“I tried to tell you.” There was remorse in his voice, but it did little to ease her pain. “Then Konal arrived and discovered you’d been to the Hagensson steading and”—his exhale was weighted—“I had no choice but to send you away. I’m only glad you proved me right by sneaking back in.”

“You listened to me,” Hekla murmured. Eyvind had been listening to her all this time. He had come through—had heeded her warnings. But only after throwing her to the wolves.

“Sending you away bought us some time to prepare for an evacuation. Konal and Loftur’s defenses are lowered; they’re busy preparing for the feasting rituals.”

Hekla nodded, hating the burn in her throat. She gathered her strength and turned to face him. Clad in his pompous red cloak and with the finest of weapons belted at his hips, he looked every bit the jarl’s son.

“Your second chance,” she said sadly, realizing all that Eyvind prepared to sacrifice.

There would be no redemption in Jarl Hakon’s eyes once he learned that his son had deceived Konal and Loftur.

“You’ve done the right thing,” she said in a voice of steel, and she meant it.

She was proud of him. Sadness panged through her with sudden intensity.

What she wouldn’t give to go back to that night when he had been the Fox and she the Lynx.

But it was only ever an illusion.

Eyvind glanced at Thrand then back to Hekla. “Hekla, I?—”

“Don’t worry yourself, Hakonsson,” said Hekla. “You did what any good leader would do in that situation. I understand well enough.”

Hekla put her hands on her hips. Stared up at the skies. And when her gaze fell back upon Eyvind, it was through the eyes of Rib Smasher. Confident. Unshakeable. And utterly cold.

“There are two hundred people out there, vulnerable to the mist.” She hardened her jaw. “The more of us ready to evacuate them, the better. Tell me which supplies you’ve gathered, Hakonsson, and I will inform you of our plan.”

Eyvind began listing the supplies he’d gathered. With each cart, horse, and weapon he recited, Hekla’s heart lightened just a touch. And when he was done, she relayed her plans as promised.

“Let me stand beside you,” said Eyvind, snagging her gaze and holding it.

“No,” said Hekla. “Istré’s locals respect you. They’ll trust in your directions far better than mine. And someone must lead them to safety.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed, but after a weighted moment, Eyvind nodded.

After agreeing on a signal, Hekla pulled her hood up and turned to retreat down the inn’s backroad.

“Hekla,” said Eyvind. There was weight to her name. As though he wished to say a thousand things. But all he said was, “I’m glad you came back.”

Hekla nodded and continued on.